Wellington, New Zealand

A woman I delivered thirty years ago came back with her own baby

Dear Delyara, I am a midwife and retiring next month after thirty-eight years. Today, a woman came onto the ward carrying a newborn and asked for me by name. I did not recognize her. She said, “You delivered me in 1996.” Her mother had kept my name in the baby book. Now this woman had just given birth in the same hospital and wanted to meet me before I retired. I laughed and said she was making me feel ancient. Then she handed me a photocopy from the baby book. In her mother’s handwriting: Midwife Anne stayed after shift because I was scared. I had no memory of doing that. I remember thousands of births in pieces—faces, emergencies, funny fathers, babies who arrived before gloves—but I do not remember hers. That bothered me until she said, “Mum remembers.” Of course. For me, it may have been one extra hour after work. For her mother, it was the night her whole life changed and somebody did not leave when the roster said she could. I held the new baby for a minute. Three generations connected through a note I never knew existed. Retirement has frightened me because I keep wondering whether thirty-eight years disappear once I hand back my badge. Today, a woman walked through the door carrying proof that some work continues in people who never knew us except at the beginning.